Piano Man
by marinoa
Summary: When an unknown piano player enters the pub Arthur is working at, Arthur Kirkland merely shrugs and life continues in normal patterns. But then, one evening, the piano man speaks to Arthur, and the wheels start turning. FrUK, AU.


_Author's note: _This is my translation of my fic_ 'Pianomies'_, originally written in Finnish. Two songs served as inspiration for this story, Billy Joel's song_ 'Piano Man'_, and the song_ 'Pianomies'_ by the Finnish musician Hector. They are two respective songs about a piano man (_surprise surprise!_), but this story is _not_ a song fic! Enjoy. :)

**Piano Man**

He played there every night.

Ever since he had crossed the threshold of the pub and asked for permission to play there that one night, he had been there every night thereafter. It wasn't that he had made any particular contracts with Gilbert, the owner of the pub, at least none that Arthur was aware of – Gilbert never told anyone anything about the matter. But when the owner acted as if the piano man was part of the picture, he very soon became a part of the picture; the rest of the staff, including Arthur, got used to this French pianist quickly.

Once, when the Frenchman had played in the pub for a week or so, Arthur had asked Gilbert about the man and if he now was the official musician of the place. But Gilbert's answer had been cryptic. He had simply shrugged his shoulders and stated that since there was a piano in the pub, it would be waste of the instrument to let it stand unused. That was all that Arthur got for an answer, and he let it be; for some reason he couldn't gather himself to go and ask the piano man himself.

It was actually a bit weird. Most of the other waiters and waitresses kept stopping at the piano for a short chat whenever the Frenchman paused his playing, but Arthur didn't have it in him to even smile to the man, let alone to speak to him. It just didn't happen. The Frenchman looked so distant there at his piano, his golden hair framing his face, his fingers flying on the keyboard, the blue eyes lost in their own world. Besides, he always started playing at seven, by which time Arthur's evening shift had already began, and he couldn't really go and chat with people when he was supposed to be working, could he? Besides, the tables that Arthur was responsible for were far from the piano, at the other side of the room, so the young Englishman's path never crossed the Frenchman's anyway. And when Arthur had the day shift, he never worked past six, in which case he didn't see the piano man at all... unless he stayed after his shift to eat something (which he did pretty often, though; cooking wasn't one of his strengths). In a nutshell, Arthur Kirkland had neither good chances, nor sufficient reason to talk to the Frenchman, who didn't seem to be interested in talking with Arthur, either. And when the whole situation had remained unchanged for two months already, it would have felt just stupid to suddenly go and talk to the pianist, and so the interaction between the Englishman and the Frenchman never got past occasional nods in those rare situations when their eyes happened to meet on either one entering the pub.

But about after two months after Francis' – the piano man's – appearance in the pub, the situation changed. One of the waiters received a job offer in another, bigger, restaurant, which he accepted, and so changes had to be made with the table arrangements, so that all the waiters would be responsible for an equal amount of tables. Arthur, too, got some extra tables in addition to his regular ones... and those new tables happened to be just at the piano.

This new turn of events failed to please Arthur even the tiniest bit, for two reasons. First, now there were two separate table areas that he was responsible for, and second, the disappearance of safe distance between him and the Frenchman put him in an uncomfortable situation. So far, he had only exchanged nods with the piano man once in a blue moon, and that's how it had been for two months already. Anything more would be completely and utterly unnatural. But the change with the table arrangements would oblige the two men to have some sort of communication, so it would only be a matter of time until the inevitable happened and one of them would have to speak to the other.

At least that's what one would think. But as it happened, now the second party was Arthur Kirkland, a young gentleman, who apparently possessed a talent for avoiding conversations, whether he wanted or not. And that's precisely what happened the first night with new table arrangements.

Arthur was already busy when Francis stepped in the pub at half past six, as was his habit. As usual, the Frenchman first had a chat with Gilbert, then exchanged a couple of words with some regular customers, complimented a couple of waitresses, and, a little before seven, sat down on his piano stool. At that precise moment, Arthur happened to walk past his piano with a pint in each hand.

"Hey!"

Arthur turned in search of the source of the voice, expecting to find a customer, but his eyes landed on Francis instead. Glancing around one more time to make sure that the call had indeed come from the Frenchman and been directed at him, at Arthur, he gave a wary nod. "Hi."

The Frenchman gave him the smile that Arthur had so far seen granted only to others. "I haven't seen you in this part of the room before."

What could be answered to a comment like that? "That's probably because I've been working on that other side so far," was Arthur's choice of response.

Francis seemed to be baffled by such an answer, as if he had been waiting for another kind of response. Arthur sensed it and frowned; what had the Frenchman been waiting for? Some kind of confession of Arthur taking the extra tables near the piano only to hear his music closer? The mere thought of it was enough to irk the young waiter.

"So you have," the Frenchman said, lifting one of his eyebrows. Now his tone was slightly different from before, as if he, in turn, sensed Arthur's ire. Or then he just noticed the Englishman's furrowed brows. Arthur half expected him to utter some stupid comment about them (stupid comments often followed a pointed look like that), but, as none came, he slightly raised the pints in his hands as a silent explanation and walked away, to deliver the drinks to waiting customers. He might or might have not felt Francis' gaze in his back as he went, but when he stole a peak in the direction of the piano a moment later, the piano man was already skimming his music papers (although he rarely played from papers, Arthur had marked). Shrugging, yet somehow dissatisfied at their so-called chat, Arthur got on with his work, the piano man began playing, and they exchanged no more words that night.

That first attempt of conversation, however, left somewhat oddly disturbing a feeling in Arthur's gut, and so, the following night, he decided to try to open a new conversation with the Frenchman; he had to admit to himself that it did feel nice when, after two months of distant observation, the piano man had noted him. Besides, he did appreciate the man's music, so Francis deserved a second chance.

It was a god try, but, in the end, Arthur didn't get far with it. The Frenchman replied to his greeting in a baffled manner, as if wondering how Arthur even dared speak to him, so the Englishman merely mumbled something about the weather and left without waiting for an answer.

Later that night Francis, in turn, attempted yet another conversation between the two of them, but his apparently playful comment about the English and the weather merely led to an argument, which effectively put an end to all attempts of conversation for the night. After that incident both the Frenchman and the Englishman reached a mutual, unvoiced agreement: better let chatting be as it didn't seem to work between them.

And so, even if Arthur's first impression of the Frenchman had been a talented, elegant, and distant character, now he considered him only annoying. Well, he still was talented, that couldn't be denied, but nothing more good could be said about Francis. Their few brief conversations had been more than enough to reveal the intolerableness of the man's personality; as was typical of the French, he was full of himself and seemed to appreciate only company that in one way or another kept reminding him of his own excellency – at least if all the smiles that Francis merrily shared to waiters and customers alike were anything to judge by. Which made him a complete waste of time, in Arthur's humble opinion.

Oddly enough, other people seemed to disagree. Gilbert was clearly becoming close friends with the Frenchman, and the chef of the place, a Spaniard called Antonio, had also found a common tongue with him rather quickly. In fact, the trio – the boss, the chef, and the pianist – had formed a tight-knight group together, despite all their differences in character. Arthur had seen the trio gathering for a pint at the end of the day many a time, and the three friends let their tongues loose. There was something so seamless in the way they fit together that the sight of them often brought a smile to Arthur's face... and if that smile was not always a happy one, well, no one noticed.

It was thanks to those moments between the trio that Arthur learnt something new about his workmates, too. It appeared that Antonio handled guitar quite gloriously, and the next step was, naturally, occasional duets with Francis. Gilbert, instead, had attended a barman course in Italy and been the brightest star of it. And Francis, he was apparently quite a known musician in certain circles in France, but that was all that Arthur heard them talking of him (not that he had been eavesdropping, of course!).

However, whatever Francis' history was, piano was a seamless part of it. Although Antonio now played with the Frenchman every now and then, the piano man usually played alone. He played everything: popular songs from respective music groups, classical pieces, even his own compositions. Often he also played customers' requests, thus managing to make every listener feel as if he played just for them, particularly for them, only for them. Between the songs and even during them Francis maintained a touch with his audience by looks, smiles, and nods, and it was visible that the number of regulars had increased considerably after the Frenchman had began playing at the pub.

Something else had changed with Francis' appearance in the pub, too. Arthur couldn't quite put a finger on what exactly, but the difference was in the atmosphere of the place, and somehow, it made him uneasy. Much had changed in only a couple of months' time; Francis had appeared and put down roots in the pub and grown in, changing with his mere being the atmosphere, customers, and the staff... and Arthur, too, even though the Englishman didn't fully admit it to himself.

It looked like nothing would change between Arthur and Francis, that everything would go on between them as awkwardly as it had begun, but fate had other plans. The change was inevitable and rather predictable, too, and it descended upon them in form of a customer. The waiters having the evening shift – which included Arthur – had already started cleaning the tables, and customers were loitering out of the pub to go home or somewhere else to continue the night... all except for one. That young man was, judging by his appearance, from some Mediterranean country, and he continued stubbornly sitting on his chair, not even stirring to exist the pub, even though Arthur was purposefully wiping the tables all around him to make him take the hint and leave. No such luck, of course; the man kept sitting at his table and staring into his half-empty wine glass with furrowed brows. As there were no other workers nearby at the moment, Arthur gave a sigh and advanced him resignedly.

"Excuse me, but we are closing," he said as politely as he could.

The young man lifted his scowling face to look at the Englishman. "I know the owner," he uttered curtly, half confrontationally, half ashamed. There was no mistaking his Italian accent – it was just as stereotypical as it was possible for an accent to be.

An irritated sigh escaped the Englishman. 'Knowing the owner' had been a frequently heard phrase, particularly when the pub had just opened its doors – and it hadn't helped that more often than not, it had been true as well. Many customers had known Gilbert at least shallowly, though most of them had heard of the albino from suspicious sources, and those customers had been forming a serious problem for Gilbert. Then the German had had enough and the problem had been solved: Gilbert had hired a security man to the pub, a well-built man called Ivan Braginski, and later another one, a man named Berwald Oxenstjärnä. The troubles had ceased to zero in no time.

But now this Italian idiot had used the 'know the owner' card, and Arthur couldn't just throw him out. "Well I'll go and get him then," he uttered irritably and turned around... only to bump into the piano man.

"Oi!" he yelped, surprised.

"Watch out!" the Frenchman uttered at the same time.

Both men glared at one another, hurling accusations back and forth with only their eyes, without uttering a word. The piano man's blue eyes looked almost black in the dim lighting, and they were giving the Englishman a disparaging, judgemental look. Arthur's own green, sharp eyes shot lightnings at the Frenchman, and for reasons unknown, something in Francis' eyes roused in Arthur a defiant decision not to move aside. It was Francis who had walked into him to begin with.

Francis raised his eyebrows questionably but didn't move out of Arthur's way, either. How long this battle of willpower would have continued, however, is to remain a secret, as the grumpy Italian interrupted their war.

"Are you going to get that dumb potato bag here or do I have to find him myself?" he demanded, cutting the battle of stares.

"I'll get him in one sodding second," Arthur muttered almost inaudibly; he was tired and in a bad mood to begin with, he didn't need any oil in the flames. The Italian didn't hear him, but Francis very clearly did, which he showed by lifting his eyebrows at the Englishman in an exaggeratedly scandalised manner. Arthur responded to that by frowning right back at him and pushed past him to go to the kitchen. And if he happened to accidentally hit the Frenchman with an empty pint, well... it happens to the best of us.

"Gilbert," he yelled as soon as he set his foot in kitchen, where the mentioned German was skimming through some papers. "Some idiot out there says he knows you."

The red eyes of the owner narrowed. "Oh, so? Who?"

"How should I know? Judging by his expression, he was sitting on needles. Had a Mediterranean look, probably from Italy."

"From Italy?" Gilbert's attention was now fully on Arthur. "Did he have anything to drink?"

This sudden interest baffled Arthur. "Yeah, wine... So you do know him?"

"Go get some Italian... no, Spanish wine!" the albino exclaimed, grabbing two clean wine glasses and rushing out of the kitchen.

Arthur snorted, but did as he was told. He randomly picked the wine and followed the German to the public side of the pub, where Gilbert, Francis and the Italian were all sitting around a table. Gilbert was excitedly blabbering something while Francis sat smiling quietly. The Italian between them looked like he would have preferred being somewhere far away instead, and Arthur couldn't really blame him for that.

"...didn't mention you being around," Gilbert was currently saying when Arthur slammed the wine bottle on the table.

"Here's your wine," he said and glanced at the clock. "I'll be going then. I've already worked half an hour extra."

Gilbert glanced at him. "Get yourself a glass and join us," he prompted merrily. "And while you're at it, get us another wine bottle, anything is fine."

Arthur cast a look at the trio – at Gilbert, who was both his boss and his friend; at Francis, who needn't even be mentioned; and at the still angry-looking Italian. "I'll pass," he said hesitantly.

"Quit that shit and do as I said!" the German laughed. "This is a joyful night!"

"Have fun then." Arthur turned to leave. He really was tired, and he didn't feel like sticking to a company where he felt to be a third wheel.

"Well," Gilbert's nonchalant voice snaked into Arthur ear. "If free drinks don't interest you... I'll keep that in mind for future reference."

The bastard.

Not uttering a word, Arthur grabbed himself a chair and joined the other three. He noticed how the corners of Francis' mouth twitch slightly, but whether that was of amusement or annoyance, he couldn't tell. Gilbert, on the other hand, didn't bother hiding his smirk. "I knew it," he said smugly. "Free alcohol always works."

"I must use every opportunity to ruin your business, after all."

"Then you'd lose your job as well," Gilbert reminded him cheerily. "Besides." His eyes twinkled mischievously. "You could never drink enough to get me worried even if you tried."

"Never say never."

"I do find your drinking challenges rather interesting," Francis interrupted them, looking at Gilbert, "but I believe you should introduce your little friend to us, don't you think?" He flashed a charming smile to that 'little friend', who responded with such a murderous glare that someone might have been baffled by it. Francis, however, was probably used to such glares, as it did nothing to faze him.

It turned out that Romano, the grumpy Italian, was an acquaintance of Gilbert's from his Italian period, when they both had attended the same barman course and met there. That was now two years ago, and they hadn't met after the course more than one time only, but in spite of that some kind of friendship seemed to have stuck to them, as Romano was now in Gilbert's pub.

"You managed to get on your feet then," Romano was currently saying to Gilbert. "Wouldn't have believed it, had I not seen this with my own eyes."

"Hey, I was best of the best on that course!" the German boasted, refilling everybody's rapidly emptying glasses. "I told you already back then that I'd start the most awesome pub in the world, and I did! By the way, was it Antonio who told you about this place?"

"Of course it was, otherwise I would have never heard of this piggery."

Arthur rolled his eyes. He couldn't understand how the Italian and the German tolerated one another, or rather, why Gilbert put up with Romano. The Italian had not yet once smiled during the whole night and kept throwing insults to all directions. He seemed to do his best to appear as sour as he could.

"Antonio told, you say?" Francis chimed in. "Haven't you two kept in touch with one another?"

Both Gilbert and Romano looked a little uncomfortable at that. The Italian frowned, blushed a little and directed his look into his glass. Gilbert uttered a laughter and answered a little too indifferently, "Romano and Antonio are childhood friends. We realised only a while ago with Antonio that Romano is our common friend. But yeah... we didn't really... Romano lives in Italy," he finished as if for an explanation. "We didn't really keep in touch, yeah."

"No wonder, in my opinion," Arthur muttered and drank from his glass. Due to his empty stomach, the wine had got quickly to his head, and now he felt even more drowsy and groggy. He really couldn't care less for pondering what should be said aloud and what perhaps shouldn't.

"Well I think it's a wonder that Gilbert hired an idiot like you," Romano countered venomously.

"I've been wondering the same thing," Francis laughed jovially.

The frog had some nerve! "You aren't one to talk!" Arthur snapped at him. "It's a wonder that anyone tolerates you enough to hire you here!"

"Ah, but I'm not hired."

This confused Arthur, but he didn't have time to ask about it as Gilbert and Romano continued their conversation.

"Typical of you to hire a house full of bastards," the Italian muttered to Gilbert.

"Nah, Arthur's good at this," the German answered, relaxedly leaning back in his chair, and changed the topic. "How long are you planning to stay here?"

"A couple of weeks. I have a month's holiday, so I came to visit Antonio."

"Were you aware of Gilbert's business already when you left Italy?" Francis asked innocently.

"N-no! Of course not! Antonio happened to mention about it today!"

"I see." Francis smiled and sipped his wine in an annoyingly elegant manner. Did he really have to pretend to better than others all the bloody time?

The conversation went on for some time more, but then the Frenchman stood up, stretched, and said, yawning, "This is all very pleasant, but it has been a long day, so I think it's time for me to go." He glanced at Gilbert and Romano, then moved his eyes on Arthur, who was currently concentrating on fishing the wine bottle in his hand (the damned thing kept avoiding him!). "Arthur here has evidently enjoyed enough wine already, too," he noted with a lopsided smile. "I think it's best if I see him home safely, unless, of course, we wish to lose a waiter."

Arthur tried to explain that he had by no means enjoyed enough wine yet and that he'd get home well enough by himself, anyway, but Gilbert, too, believed it best to close the place already. "Get him home, Francis. We'll stay to lock the doors."

And so Arthur found himself on the street outside the pub, alone with Francis. Despite the wine, the nightly air had a chilly bite after the warmth of the pub, and had Arthur not needed his arms to maintain his balance, he would have wrapped them around himself to keep some heat to himself. He cast a longing look through the window of the pub and snorted. "They don't seem too busy locking the doors there," he muttered on seeing Gilbert and Romano still sitting at the table.

Francis glanced inside, too, but, unlike the Englishman, he smiled. "Of course. You didn't seriously believe they were leaving already, did you?"

"In case you didn't hear, Gilbert said he was going to close the place." Damn, did Francis really have to move in slow circles like that? Looking at him made Arthur nauseous. Though, the sight of the Frenchman was always enough to make him nauseous, he he.

Francis looked at Arthur and lifted his brows. "I heard him well enough, thank you very much. But he had to get rid of us somehow."

"Well I understand if he wanted to get rid of _you_, but -"

"For heaven's sake!" Francis threw his hands up in the air. "I don't know what's messing up your head, wine or a more permanent form of idiocy, but there should be a limit to everything!"

Such an insult offended Arthur deeply. He waved his hand to point at Francis, but the movement made him sway dangerously, and Francis hurried to catch his arm. "And this, too!" he huffed. "You hardly even drank more than two glasses!"

"Shut up." Arthur regained his balance and shook his arm free from the Frenchman's grip. He had already forgotten what he had wanted to say, so just as well he might leave. "I'm going home."

Francis sighed. "Can you _get_ home?"

"Of course I can! You wino!"

"Which one of us, I wonder..." the Frenchman muttered. "We had better call you a taxi."

"No!" Arthur declared. "I'm not paying for taxis. I'll walk."

"I'm a bit doubtful, seeing your condition."

"None of your business, froggy," Arthur argued. "I live here nearby."

Francis' expression changed into a more irritated one. "It's not you I worry about. It would just be a great pity if you managed to cause troubles to other people on the way."

"Buzz off."

Francis sighed and shook his head condescendingly. "Insolent, rude, tactless, drunkard... you are good for many things, I observe."

Tipsy or not, Arthur found such a description quite offensive. "You, instead, are good for nothing," he uttered in response, and would have said even more, had his thoughts not refused to turn into words.

"Whatever you say," Francis said, visibly fed up with arguing with the drunk man. "You don't even know me, and clearly have no wish to know, but you do seem to like forming opinions like that." Surprisingly, he sounded genuinely hurt. "I doubt you have a good opinion of anyone."

Arthur spoke without thinking, just to prove the other one wrong. "I did have a good opinion of you," he blurted and pointed his finger in the Frenchman's chest. "At first."

This visibly surprised Francis. "You did?" Then he frowned. "At first?"

However, Arthur decided then that it was past time the conversation ended, as watching the world turning around in his eyes made him want to vomit. "I'm leaving," he announced and did just that; he turned around and headed toward his flat.

Francis remained standing on his spot, brows furrowed. "You're hard to figure out," Arthur heard him say. "You go at your own risk, then. If you get run over by car, blame yourself for that."

Arthur decided that such a comment wasn't worth his answer, but he answered anyway. "Same for you." He decided to stop at that, but apparently the wine in his system had something more to add: "Good night, idiot." The he laughed, because he felt that he had got the final word and achieved victory over the Frenchman.

Francis stayed watching him until he disappeared behind a corner.

xXx

The following day Arthur had the day shift, which meant that he had till about eleven o'clock in the morning to collect himself and his splitting head and drag himself to work. The pub opened its doors already at noon, and, luckily for Arthur, the first hours were always quiet. Besides, by midday his hangover was fortunately letting go anyway (how had he angered the universe to deserve hangover even after minimum amounts of alcohol?), but despite that the Englishman thanked heaven for not having any morning shifts.

Gilbert, instead, appeared to be in an obnoxiously good mood. As soon as Arthur emerged in the kitchen, where Antonio was already organising utensils, his boss greeted him with a large grin and a friendly slam on the back. "Well you look destructed," he complimented Arthur cheerily, cutting off his chat with Antonio.

"Thanks," Arthur groaned. He always looked destructed, so it was unfair to keep reminding him about it, and besides, Gilbert's hair very nearly equalled Arthur's in messiness. "You seem to have enjoyed yourself with that... er, Italian."

"Romano. And yes I did!" Gilbert confirmed, but didn't elaborate. "I take it Francis walked you home yesterday?" he asked instead, red eyes glinting.

Arthur wrinkled his nose. "No he didn't." He recalled their conversation from the previous night and decided to add, just to clarify, "As if I needed some slimy escorts to get home!" And then it struck him that the previous night's conversation was the longest that he and Francis had ever had together. Alcohol sure got some miracles done.

His answer seemed to surprise the German. "He didn't? That's odd. Usually he does..." The he shrugged and began talking about something else entirely, and so Arthur's work day began.

"Oh, so he usually does," the Englishman muttered under his breath while pulling his working shirt on. Then he decided that it would be silly to waste any more of his thoughts on that Frenchman, and spent the rest of his shift assuring himself that henceforth, Francis would have no room in his thoughts whatsoever.

Arthur's shift ended at six in the evening, but, as so many evenings before, he decided to stay and eat his dinner in the pub; he didn't have any food prepared at home, and he certainly wasn't up for cooking himself at the moment. And so, when Francis stepped into the pub at half past six as was his habit, Arthur was still eating at the farthest corner table that he had found.

Francis went through his usual rituals: he talked with Gilbert (Arthur was certain that the German had glanced to his direction several times while they talked), exchanged a couple of words with an elderly man (he was one of Francis' regulars), said something apparently extremely funny to a group of girls, and finally sat down at his piano. Not that Arthur had followed his actions or anything! It simply was difficult not to notice the Frenchman.

Then Francis started playing.

Arthur had heard him play every night for two months. He knew how the Frenchman played. He knew how his music would affect him. But in spite of that everything in him stopped for the tiniest moment when the first chord rebounded off the keyboard into the air and mixed with other sounds of music.

In principle, Arthur considered himself a rock-person. That was not to say that he didn't enjoy other music genres, it was just that rock was in his blood. And yet, despite that, Francis' piano playing had this stopping effect on him, always, every time. Arthur didn't know how or why. All he knew was that when Francis let his fingers fly on the keyboard, he put his entire soul into his music, and that was conveyed to his audience, too. And although Arthur was sitting in the furthest, darkest corner far from the piano and the piano man, he felt as though Francis Bonnefoy was playing personally for him. He felt as though the music flowed straight into his heart, showing him how empty and lonely it truly was, but then filling that emptiness as if reassuring that he wasn't so vacant after all, he wasn't alone...

The previous night inevitably returned to Arthur's mind. It was actually funny... For those two months that Francis had been playing in the pub, Arthur had watched him from afar, as if through a glass wall. He had seen and heard, but he had never been able to step through that wall to the other side and speak out. Yet, the previous night that wall had shattered, because Francis and Arthur had exchanged more than a couple of words, albeit mostly insults. That situation had been the most genuine one between them so far, and Arthur couldn't help wondering what might have happened, had it proceeded otherwise. If he hadn't been drunk. Would he have managed to say something pleasant, as well? What if he would have? Would the night have ended differently?

The music ceased, and Arthur was roused from his musings.

"What in the..." he murmured, glancing at his watch. Half nine? Had he really spent one and a half hours listening to some Frenchie playing his silly songs?

He had. Damn.

Arthur abruptly rose from his seat. He'd better disappear from the pub before he would do more thinking and perhaps realise something that he refused to realise under any circumstances. The pub was filled with people, with small groups of friends as well as solitary customers sitting aloof. The piano stool was vacant; Francis had probably gone to the kitchen to take a break.

Perfect. That was Arthur's moment.

The Englishman strode to the front door, and he almost made it that far before he was stopped by a voice.

"Why in such a hurry?"

Of course. Reluctantly, Arthur halted and turned around to face Francis' twinkling eyes and his customary lopsided smile.

"As far as I see, that's not your concern," he answered, crossing his arms across his chest. After the previous night it was rather awkward to be in the proximity of the Frenchman, even though Arthur hadn't said or done anything too stupid... as far as he remembered.

"Of course it's not." Francis took a sip of the glass of water he had fetched from the kitchen. "Do forgive me if I'm disturbing the call of your bottle."

With what right did Francis poke fun at him? Okay, Arthur had been somewhat tipsy the previous night, but that had been the first time when Francis had even seen him drunk.

"Yeah, even the bottle is better company than you," he countered grumpily and turned to leave, but Francis stopped him again.

"I'm sorry," he said. "But now as you mentioned it... Yesterday you said something interesting, and I'd like to ask you about it if you aren't too busy."

Something interesting? Arthur frowned. What on earth had he let slip from his mouth? The need to assure himself of no needless harm being done convinced the Englishman to follow Francis to a small, empty table near a wall. "Well?" he asked, as soon as they sat down.

Francis took his time. He took another sip of water, then watched the Englishman through his glass. "You said," he started slowly. "You said that my music lifts you high in the sky of happiness and that I'm the handsomest and the most talented pianist whom you've ever had the pleasure of meeting."

Arthur's cheeks flushed scarlet. "I certainly did not!"

"Well, you didn't put it quite like that," Francis admitted with a casual shrug. "But you did say that at first you had a good opinion of me, which I interpreted as you just heard."

Well, that was something Arthur might have said... yes, something like that came to his mind. He directed a defiant look at the Frenchman. "So?"

"Well. The words 'at first' caught my particular attention."

"Perhaps you wish for me to explain to you the meaning of those words?"

Francis frowned at the sarcasm. "I'd rather have you explain what made your opinion of me sink so."

"Easy," Arthur said. "You opened your mouth."

Very elegantly Francis lifted one of his eyebrows. "Right." He seemed to wait for elaboration.

Arthur, however, offered no further explanations. His answer hadn't even been an insult. Well, fine, it had, but at the same time it was the purest truth; the haughty way in which Francis had spoken to him at first had crumbled Arthur's silent appreciation. Somewhere at the corners of his mind also echoed the words Gilbert had uttered that morning: _"Usually he does..."_ If walking people home was a habit for Francis, Arthur was very clearly left below his standards, which irritated him further. Not that he would have wanted Francis to walk him home, the situation simply proved that Francis really regarded himself higher than others.

Realising that Arthur wasn't going to continue, Francis leant back in his chair. "Well then," he said. "In that case I must have said something utterly stupid."

Such a response took Arthur aback to the extent that he was unable to say anything intelligent. "Yes."

"Well, that's solved, then." The Frenchman finished his glass of water. "Perhaps that's why you avoided talking to me the first two months of my playing here."

Arthur was even more surprised on hearing this. "Yes," he merely repeated, albeit somewhat hesitantly. Then he got a feeling that something else ought to be said as well, and continued, "You play better than you speak. You should stick to that instead of talking."

Francis raised one of his eyebrows (as apparently was his habit). "Why thank you." But he smiled.

"Listen," he then continued, "If that's the case, why wouldn't you stay until I finish playing tonight? I'll play just an hour or two."

Suddenly Arthur felt extremely uncomfortable. "Well..." However, Francis cut him off by raising his hand to a rejective gesture. "No, wait. If I give you time, I'm sure you'll come up with a reason to leave. But I won't give you time to refuse, so how about you just sit right there." The Frenchman stood up and took his empty glass. Before Arthur had time to come up with _any_ words, he glanced at the Englishman and added, "Perhaps we could also leave together after I finish." And then he was at his piano again.

Something twisted in Arthur's stomach. Right then, so now he was counted among the people whom Francis _usually_ walked home? Though it wasn't that the Frenchman had mentioned anything about walking him home, simply of leaving together, which was a totally different thing. Damn it all, why did such a silly thing even bother Arthur? The hell he'd stay to listen to Francis, he would leave right away!

And yet, despite his steadfast decision, Arthur got up only to fetch himself some tea from the bar counter.

Francis resumed playing, and once again Arthur sat and listened, as if nailed to his seat. Once again he felt as if the music was meant just for him, and once or twice he thought he noticed Francis subtly glancing his way as if to make sure that he was still there. But each and every lonely customer felt exactly the same thing, and they, too, got their share of glances from the piano man.

Arthur froze. In that moment he understood what exactly had changed in the atmosphere of the pub on Francis' appearance there.

When before customers had arrived in noisy groups to spend they evening in the pub, now they came alone or in groups of only two or three people. And they weren't noisy any more. They came to listen to Francis, came to sit among other people so alike them, and to feel the piano man's music fill their emptiness. Those days there were more of those who came alone, more of those who left alone.

Arthur realised something else, too. He understood that he was one of those lonely people, one among the others. One among the others also to the piano man.

Such thoughts both surprised and scared the Englishman, and he furrowed his brows. He had never considered himself lonely before. Yes, in a way, he had always been introverted, but it wasn't the same as loneliness. Besides he had friends and he enjoyed their company just like other people did. But then Francis had arrived with his music and opened a secret locker in Arthur's heart, a locker which, when opened, revealed a new kind of loneliness, one that the Englishman had never been conscious of before.

Arthur stood up and left the pub mid-song.

xXx

When Arthur arrived for his evening shift on the following day, he found an addition to their usual staff in the kitchen: Gilbert's Italian friend. He was chatting with Antonio while the Spaniard was preparing customers' food orders. Arthur had forgotten the Italian's name again, and the Italian, in turn, seemed to have troubles recalling Arthur's, too, so their greeting was clumsy and fumbling. Antonio laughed at them.

"Romano, do you remember Arthur?" he asked, helpfully reminding both the Englishman and the Italian of forgotten names. "Gilbert told me that you've met already."

"How could I not remember eyebrows like those?" Romano grumbled. Arthur had noticed that the Italian had cut himself off the moment the Englishman had stepped into kitchen, so he decided to leave the two of them alone. However, on hearing such an inappropriate comment, he couldn't just withdraw without a comeback.

"We've met indeed," Arthur said to Antonio in conversational manner. "Though that one time would have been perfectly enough."

Antonio laughed in his joyful way. "How nice to see that you have already found a common language. You two will surely become very good friends!"

This ridiculous statement made Arthur and Romano instinctively exchange glances, and the corners of their mouths were drawn in tiny smiles. Antonio and his everlasting optimism!

Arthur exited the kitchen to the backroom, where he pulled on his black working shirt, then let himself sit on the worn sofa and rested his head against the wall. No matter how he tried to deny it, the truth was that guilt was storming within him like an ocean, all due to the previous night. This time it was pointless to blame Francis for anything, it was all Arthur's own fault now. The Frenchman had clearly been offering a truce, but Arthur had watered it down by leaving without a word, and now, needless to say, he was honestly scared of facing the Frenchman. _I need to apologise, _the Englishman reluctantly decided, but the mere thought of apologising was enough to sour his mood. He hated apologising, for it was incredibly hard for him to admit that he had been wrong, and especially to admit that to somebody else, but he really had no one else to blame but himself this time._ Okay,_ he thought, _it's five minutes to six. I have half an hour to come up with a suitable apology before Francis arrives. _Right. He could do it.

However, Arthur's not-so-strong determination crumbled to little pieces and fell to the ground at the same second as he stepped back into the kitchen. This time, you see, there were more people in addition to Antonio and Romano: Gilbert and Francis were there, too, leaning against the kitchen counter. Gilbert greeted the Englishman with his customary grin and a wave of hand before Arthur's mind had been able to progress what was before him, but when his eyes stopped on the Frenchman, the sea of guilt froze inside him. Francis regarded him silently, arms crossed across his chest, ice-cold look in his blue eyes.

"Er..." What the fuck was Francis doing in the kitchen even though it was barely six o'clock? Arthur wasn't prepared to apologise so unexpectedly and soon, damn it! Besides, he didn't want to perform such a humiliating task in front of an audience, so, not knowing what else to do, he merely mumbled something illegible for a greeting and slipped to the public quarters of the pub. _Well that went well,_ he congratulated himself bitterly.

There was one perk of being a waiter, however, and that was business; the more customers there were, the less time there was to dwell on stupid things – and there were a lot of customers at Gilbert's pub. So Arthur drowned his disturbing thoughts in work and even succeeded in it. After some time he noticed how Francis positioned himself at the piano, exchanged a few pleasantries with some customers and waiters, and, as usually, started playing. To Arthur he didn't spare one glance.

That evening hours dragged by slower than ever, and when Francis finally stood up to go to kitchen for a break, Arthur would have been most willing to go home already. From the corner of his eyes he saw how the Frenchman opened the kitchen door for one of the waitresses, and even the smile that Francis directed at her didn't slip unnoticed by Arthur. And somehow, without any connection to anything, the pint in the Englishman's hand hit the table with more force than was strictly necessary.

The elderly man at the table gave a startled look at Arthur.

"I'm sorry," the Englishman mumbled, silently berating himself. "It slipped."

The old man uttered a laughter and grabbed his pint. "Happens." Arthur returned his smile and turned to go, but the man stopped him. "Wait," he said, and the Englishman turned toward him again. "Would you like to have something else, sir?"

The man rubbed his white beard, and Arthur recollected seeing him more than once in the pub before. "That piano man," the man began, "Does he also play customers' request songs?"

Involuntarily Arthur glanced to the kitchen door, but the piano man had already gone inside. "Now and then, yes."

"In that case, would you be so kind as to ask him to play a song for me?"

"I think it would be best that you asked for that song yourself, sir, if you wish for him to play it."

The man chuckled and gulped from his pint. "I bet he'd rather listen to you than to an old man like myself." He winked at Arthur. "At least judging by the glances he's been throwing your way."

Such a comment made Arthur flush a little; the old man didn't know what he was even talking about. Arthur was about to open his mouth to protest, but the man was faster. "Had I strong legs, I would go myself," he said, nodding to his left, where Arthur only then noticed a cane leaning against the wall. "The song that I'd wish to hear was playing when I proposed to my late wife," the man added quietly. "It was also playing when I buried her."

For the second time that evening Arthur was engulfed by shame. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I... What song did you wish to hear?"

The old man smiled at him and named the piece of music. There was something about the man and his wistful smile that made Arthur feel a tug in his heart, and he promised to deliver the wish to Francis as soon as he returned to his instrument.

The piano man's break wasn't very long, and in about twenty minutes he returned to his stool. Arthur cast a quick look at the elderly man and strode to the piano. "Hey," he said, remaining on the safe side of the instrument, the piano between Francis and him.

Francis raised his blue eyes on him and waited.

Arthur's palms sweated. "I... Yes, I mean, I'd like to request a song."

The Frenchman lifted one of his eyebrows and Arthur hurried to correct the misunderstanding. "I mean, it's not _my_ request, but that bearded man's wish, that one there near the wall. He asked me to deliver his request to you. It's... it's important to him."

Francis turned on his stool to detect the mentioned old man, and smiled to him when their eyes met. "Understood," he then said to Arthur, and, not paying the Englishman any more attention, began playing.

Arthur, despite himself, found himself unable to leave his place at the piano, and remained where he was, resting his elbows on the instrument. His own break would begin in few minutes, so he wasn't in a hurry to return to work. Besides, Francis' music did it's deed once again, nailing Arthur to the spot. He leant his cheek on his hands and listened to the piano man play Sinatra.

At first the Frenchman played without paying Arthur any attention, but on realising that the Englishman was not even stirring to leave, he cast a questionable look at him. Arthur met his eyes and realised that if he ever wanted to apologise to Francis, he would have to do it then and there, or else he would never be able to open his mouth about the matter.

"Listen," he said quietly, hoping that his talking wouldn't disturb the music. Francis fixed his eyes on him again, and Arthur couldn't help wondering how he managed to keep on playing even without looking at the keyboard. The Englishman cleared his throat to win some time and continued. "So. I didn't mean to leave just like that yesterday, not saying anything."

Francis' eyes were still on him, and his palms started sweating again. What exactly should he say to have the apology accepted? "I just... I mean, I just wanted to say I'm sorry." He could no longer bear the Frenchman's look and fixed his eyes on his hands, waiting for an answer. None came, however, so Arthur was forced to take a peek at Francis... only to find amused twinkling in his eyes and a small smile tugging at his lips.

"You surprise me, Arthur," the Frenchman said, still smiling. "I wasn't expecting such a good-willing gesture from you."

"This isn't a good-willing gesture!" the Englishman immediately retorted. "Simply making sure we are even."

"I see."

Damn it, what was with that smile? The Frenchman should focus on his music and not on... smiling to Arthur? No, that wasn't what he meant, but...

Arthur yanked his eyes free from the Frenchman's face and stepped away from the piano. "Right, my break has just begun, so I'll just..." His voice faded away and uttering nothing more (which meant embarrassing himself no further), he headed to the kitchen. He really needed a cup of tea alone in the backroom right now.

This time Antonio was alone in the kitchen, so Arthur faced no extra troubles while preparing himself some tea and withdrawing to the backroom with the precious cup. All the waiters had different break schedules, so the room was exclusively Arthur's for the time being, which he was thankful for.

Having finished his tea, Arthur threw himself on the only sofa in the backroom and pulled an MP3-player from his backpack. He slammed the earphones over his ears and letting out a long, contented sigh, closed his eyes. Peace. Just what he needed at the moment. Besides, the old man's wish had roused a need in Arthur to listen to Sinatra, too, and forget himself for a while.

Peace, quite naturally, was short-lived. Sheer instinct convinced Arthur to open his eyes, and for a good reason, as he was met with the sight of Francis leaning against the door frame, openly observing the Englishman. "Pity," the Frenchman uttered calmly, "You noticed me."

Arthur sat up and pulled the earphones off his ears. "What are you doing here?" he demanded accusingly, as if Francis violated his human rights by merely existing.

The Frenchman lifted his brow in a familiar manner. "Do forgive me, I was not aware of this room being reserved for your personal use only."

Arthur didn't come up with any witty retorts so instead he settled for waiting for the Frenchman to explain his business there – he clearly had something to say if he had left the piano unattended. Francis, however, took his time. He walked to the sofa and sat down beside the Englishman, eyeing him thoughtfully all the while. Arthur, on the other hand, focused on aimlessly looking through the playlists of his music player.

"Your apology is accepted," Francis finally made his merciful announcement.

"Jolly good."

"I'm still curious to know what made you leave so suddenly, though."

_That you'll never know. _Something twisted in tight knots in Arthur's stomach. Perhaps he was getting sick. "Had to," he uttered curtly and got up from the sofa to go to his locker, where he kept his backpack. There should be some painkillers there, that would certainly cure the unpleasant twists in his belly.

Francis was evidently dissatisfied with the answer he had got, but pressured no further. For some time silence prevailed in the small room as Arthur fished for his medicine, and Francis...

"Oh, I didn't know that you listen to this kind of music," Arthur heard the Frenchman comment from the sofa. The man had attacked his music player then, the pilferer.

"There's much more you don't know about me," the Englishman muttered under his breath, not even thinking of what he had said. There, he found the painkillers!

Steps behind Arthur's back got the Englishman to turn around, and suddenly he realised that the blue eyes were boring into his from a close distance... too close! The Frenchman was standing only inches away from Arthur, forcing him to press himself against the locker in order to avoid physical contact.

"Then show me," Francis said slightly hoarsely.

"What -"

"Show me what I don't know about you," Francis repeated, taking a step forward and thus pressing Arthur against the locker with his own body. His eyes didn't leave the Englishman's for one moment.

"You are always hiding behind an invisible wall and let nothing else show but a rough surface. I want to know more."

The package of painkillers fell to the floor and Arthur was sure that he couldn't breath any more. His mind was completely blank, he was unable to question, to snarl, to do anything. His heart was drumming in his chest like a war drum, his breaths came out as rasps, and all he could see was Francis' face as the Frenchman leant closer, closer... and then Francis' lips were on his own, Francis' burning hands on his waist, that much he could comprehend, and then he comprehended nothing else for a long, long eternity.

At least it felt like eternity, until Francis drew back from the kiss and dropped his hands from Arthur's waist. Both men breathed heavily, as if barely saved from drowning, but the Frenchman's eyes still kept Arthur's in their grip.

Finally comprehension returned to Arthur's numb mind. Arms hanging on his sides he stared at the Frenchman with a serious effort to get his brain working. "What... why did you do that?"

Francis tilted his head to the side and graced Arthur with one of his lopsided smiles. "I thought I already expressed that quite self-evidently," he chuckled a little bemusedly, pulling his fingers though his long hair, as if not quite knowing what to do with his hands.

"The hell you expressed," the Englishman snarled, as at least for him nothing was clear in the least. How dared Francis launch such a surprise attack? And why? Wasn't it enough for him to stick to seducing other waiters and even customers, did he really have to make advances at Arthur, too? The fact that Arthur had responded the kiss in such a shamefully wanton way was beside the point, it had been an accident, happened without him realising it, just like that, just like his dreams...

On that precise moment the baffled silence in the room was cut off as neatly as if cut with a knife. The door of the room flew open and the devil himself strode in in form of Gilbert. "Francis! Where the hell are you-" The German halted abruptly on seeing Francis and Arthur so close to one another, the latter still pressed against the locker, and an obnoxiously knowing grin spread on his face. "I see how it is!" Gilbert cackled. "And here I was wondering where you disappeared," he said to Francis. "To think that you managed to capture Arthur in your trap, he is not quite as easy as most people usually are!"

This was the straw that broke the camel's back. Arthur's face burned scarlet, and instinctively he pushed Francis away from him. "This is not what it looks like!"

Gilbert rolled his eyes. "Yeah, and potatoes grow on trees." he winked at the Frenchman. "High-five, bro."

"Gilbert, calm down a little," Francis said on noticing Arthur's murderous glare. "I didn't -"

"He didn't capture anyone!" Arthur hissed, cutting off the Frenchman. Gilbert's words made him feel like the very last fool, and he had to minimise the harm as far as it was possible; he would have no one believe that Francis had 'captured' him like some simple-minded girl! "That frog-face merely pawed me, that's all there is to it!"

Before either Francis or Gilbert had time to respond, Arthur stomped past them and out of the room. His face was aflame of shame. How on earth had he...

"Arthur?" Antonio gave him a worried look from where he was leaning against the stove with a cup of coffee in his hand. "Are you all right?"

"Yes!" Arthur spat at him and hurried through the kitchen as if chased by fire. Then he got the best idea of the day and hid in the staff's rest-room. For a while he simply rested his forehead against the door, eyes tightly shut, then walked over to the sink and splashed cold water on his face.

All right? As if, Arthur was anything but! Francis – agh! It sure didn't help to think of him now, to think of his hands on Arthur's waist, of his lips on Arthur's lips, of his dangerously deep blue eyes...

Arthur met his own gaze in the mirror. "So I am not as easy as most people usually are, huh?" he snarled at his reflection, as if everything was its fault and not Francis'. "_Do forgive me!_" That one word _usually _seemed to often be associated with Francis – _usually_ he walked people home, _usually _he seduced them easily... Well pray please fucking excuse him, apparently he didn't fit into that category of chosen ones. He didn't even want to. He would never join that trail of beguiled and discarded hearts that Francis apparently left behind himself wherever he went.

The painfully twisting knots in his belly made another appearance. If only he had taken the painkillers with him instead of forgetting them on the floor in the backroom...

The rest of the evening was plain torment for the Englishman. He had to return to work when his break ended, but Francis had returned to his piano, too, and how was Arthur supposed to concentrate on his work when the Frenchman played his music and kept constantly throwing glances at him? The man should be reported of harassment!

Around half past ten the piano man finally finished playing and once again received the audience's gratefulness with a shining face and wide smiles. Most of the customers always wanted to exchange a couple of words with him before calling it a day, and it looked like Francis already knew many of them personally. Even the customers, who didn't want to stay and chat with the Frenchman, went to put some money in the jar beside the piano.

While wiping a table Arthur watched how Francis made his way to the old man with a white beard, the one who had requested a song. The Frenchman sat beside him, and it was easy to see how pleased the old man was. Apparently they found an interesting topic, too, as neither one showed any signs of going home.

Most of the customers stayed at the pub even when Francis had finished his performance, so Arthur had no shortage of work. Only closer to midnight did the place start to quiet down, and the remaining customers mainly sat alone or in small groups, making only few new orders. That left Arthur enough time for aimless wandering around the pub wit a rug in his hand, as if to wipe tables with it, while in reality he only wanted to look busy because Francis was still sitting at his table, not looking like planning on leaving any time soon. The old man had left already, but Arthur had noted that he and Francis had conversed for quite a long time.

To escape the blue eyes for a moment Arthur slipped to kitchen, where Antonio was drying washed glasses. Romano was there as well, once again, and he was helping the Spaniard. However, immediately on the Englishman stepping in Antonio turned to him with shining eyes. "Congratulations, Arthur!" he exclaimed in a sincerely happy voice. "I heard that you and Francis finally took the step to the next level!"

"The fuck? Who told you something like that?" Gilbert, of course, that was obvious, but Arthur had no idea of what else to say. "And we took no steps on any levels whatsoever!"

"Yeah, right," Romano snorted without interrupting his work. "It sure sounded like that."

"Everything that Gilbert might have said about it is nonsense!"

"Perhaps so, but Francis admitted too that you were necking in the backroom."

So the snail-brain had set in spreading gossips about his new 'conquest' the very moment that Arthur had fled the scene! Anger bubbled in the Englishman's veins. Typical! That was precisely the reason why it was stupid to harbour any wishes concerning Francis... not that Arthur had such wishes to begin with! "Necking!" he repeated, scandalised. "It was just one kiss -"

"So you do admit it!" Antonio called out.

"No! I mean- Yes, but there's nothing more to it!"

"A bit hard to believe that when you throw such a fit about it," Romano stated dryly.

Antonio gave Arthur a confused look. "Do you mean that your kiss meant nothing to you?"

"Nothing at all!"

Antonio's eyes darkened at that, and Romano gave him a worried look. "So you mean to say that you are merely toying with Francis' feelings?" the Spaniard asked calmly, but his voice was cold, and suddenly a vision of the Spaniard with a bloody war axe flashed in Arthur's mind. He shook such silly pictures out of his head and put his fists on his hips. "_I_ toy?" he asked mockingly. "I do not descend so low, unlike some others."

His hint was unnoticed by the Spaniard, and Antonio's eyes softened immediately. "Oh, good. Both you and Francis are my friends, but if you were intentionally going to hurt him, I'm afraid I would have been obliged to interfere."

"Actually, it's none of your business," Romano remarked and placed the last dried glass in the shelf.

Antonio quickly turned to him. "The same concerns Gilbert," he said firmly, and the Italian's face heated up immediately. "If he hurts you in any way, you must tell me about it. No one is allowed to hurt my little Romano's feelings!"

"Shut up!" Romano yelled, cheeks scarlet. "What the hell, Antonio? That doesn't concern you at all! And what the fucking little Ro-Romano!" The Italian punched the chef's arm, and quite hard at that. "If you ever say that again, I will make mush out of you... potato mush!"

Antonio merely laughed at that and Arthur decided that it was past time he left the scene. He didn't know what Antonio had meant about Gilbert, but neither did he understand the way in which the Spaniard had talked about Francis. It wasn't fair! First the Frenchman comes and kisses him just like that out of the blue, then he goes to advertise to the whole word that he had caught Arthur on his hook (which was untrue, naturally), and on top of all that he makes himself the victim! And because Francis was so easily approachable and likeable, naturally everybody believed him and accused _Arthur_ of toying with feelings! The world sure was a twisted place.

As if life wasn't miserable enough as it was, Arthur spotted the famous Frenchman still sitting at his table. It didn't take much wit to guess what he was so stubbornly waiting for, and suddenly Arthur dreaded the moment when his shift would end.

Where an hour earlier Arthur had wished for the time to pass by faster, now he prayed for it to slow down if not stop completely, but all in vain; of course the hands of the clock had to go and point one o'clock to announce that it was time for Arthur to pull off his working shirt and get home. And just like he had feared, Francis was waiting for him at the front door of the pub.

"Arthur," he greeted him.

"I was just leaving," the Englishman proclaimed and exited the building into the cool autumn night.

"What a coincidence, so am I." Francis appeared on his side. "Shall we go together?"

"We shan't." Arthur strode determinedly onwards, eyes strictly fixed in distance.

"Arthur," Francis called, and there was something in his voice that finally forced Arthur to stop. "I believe there was something left unfinished in the backroom today, and I'd like to finish what we started."

So now he wanted to talk himself into Arthur's bed. Eyes shimmering with fury the Englishman turned toward the Frenchman. "Something was indeed left unfinished! Namely that I forgot to punch your face in!"

Now anger flared on Francis' face, too. "What's your problem, Arthur? I mean, aside your lack of a simple skill called _listening_?"

"I would listen if you said something worth listening to!"

Francis was visibly offended by his comment. He crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm terribly sorry if I'm not worth his majesty's attention, but at least _I _don't want to leave anything hanging in the air."

"Then what do you want?" Arthur snapped, no longer even knowing what he was arguing about.

"_To talk! _But apparently some people must turn every conversation into a yelling match."

"And some people must victimise themselves and direct accusations on others!"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Stop pretending! Antonio was very close to murdering me with his eyes today because you had fed him lies about me!"

"That's nonsense! I didn't do anything even remotely close to that!"

"Is that so? And yet the entire staff of the pub knows what we- you- what happened in the backroom."

Francis' eyes narrowed dangerously. "And what happened there, Arthur? Do tell me what could have possibly happened that required me to spread lies about it?"

Arthur was already tripping over his own thoughts and words, and he had lost all logic in his speech long ago. He was tired after his shift, and all the confusion and mixed feelings of past weeks had stretched his mental endurance nearly to the point of snapping. The words just started pouring from his lips.

"Don't give me that innocent face! First you tell everyone what happened and boast to all directions of getting my name to the end of your list, too, and then you victimise yourself to Antonio, so that he would accuse _me_ of toying with feelings!"

"I don't know if you have perhaps forgotten, but _Gilbert saw us_, so some nerve you have, to blame me for telling everyone." Francis' gaze forced Arthur to cast his eyes on the asphalt. "What concerns boasting and victimising myself, you came up with that solely on your own accord!"

"Did I indeed? Well as it happens, I quite remember Gilbert's words!"

"Then what were his words?"

Arthur pressed his lips together. It would be far too humiliating to repeat the words 'capture in the trap' and 'not as easy as most people' right in front of Francis.

"Excellent, so now we play mute, don't we?"

"You know what," Arthur uttered, suddenly feeling so very tired. "Never mind. Just let it be. It doesn't matter."

"No," Francis responded firmly. "To me it matters."

Of course it mattered to Arthur as well, but it wasn't like he could admit it at that point. He was at the point of understanding nothing, and all he wanted to do was get home and bury himself under his blanket to hide from those blue eyes, eyes that threatened to drown Arthur were he not careful.

Francis sighed beside him. "How did this turn a shouting match again," he uttered a cheerless laughter. "This didn't go quite as it was supposed to."

"Then how was it supposed to go?" Arthur asked quietly, in a plain voice. "Were you supposed to snake between my sheets and finish what you started in the backroom?"

Francis cast a sharp look at the Englishman. "Is that what you think of me? Is that what you think I want of you?"

Arthur merely shrugged. He no longer trusted his voice, and something was uncomfortably prickling behind his eyes.

"I see. Your opinion of me isn't a particularly flattering one."

"Shouldn't be a big deal for you. There are plenty of others to make it up for you."

"It's not other people's opinions that matter to me the most."

"What?"

Arthur reflexively raised his eyes and was immediately captured by Francis'... again.

"Arthur, what on earth do you take me for?" This time the Frenchman sounded genuinely hurt. "Judging by your words, you consider me immorality personified! What reason have I given for you to think of me like that?"

Arthur glanced around. He was reluctant to go through that conversation there, out on the street for whole world to see and hear. But that late at night there were barely any passers-by, and even cars drove past them only occasionally. The chilly wind made Arthur shiver, and he wrapped his arms around himself. A quick glance at Francis' direction showed that the Frenchman was still waiting for an answer with a stern expression on his face, but Arthur would have given much and more if only Francis had let the matter drop. He didn't want to reveal the Frenchman the mess chocking him from inside; he feared to reveal the emptiness that the Frenchman himself had made the Englishman to be aware of, and least of all he wanted to reveal all those storming emotions that he didn't even fully understand, let alone admit. And yet he sensed that this time, he wouldn't get away with it.

Averting the Frenchman's eyes, Arthur inhaled deeply. "I..." Then he exhaled after all and covered his face with his hands. "To hell with this." He refilled his lungs with air and stuffed his hands into his pockets, turning half-away from Francis, and gave another try. "I'm not somebody who you can just charm and leave behind for fun. I... it's not my business what's your way with other men and women, but I'm not one of them."

Francis looked at him, puzzled.

"I don't even know where from you got the idea of fooling with me," Arthur continued, now speaking more to himself than to the Frenchman. "Did you bet with Gilbert or something?"

"Arthur," Francis cut it. "You didn't answer my question. What made you believe that of me? That I merely 'fool' with people?"

"Don't even try. Gilbert had made it perfectly clear what a womaniser you are! You consider charming people a hobby! You must have been bloody proud of yourself today, as I'm apparently not quite as easy as most others!"

Francis' eyes flashed dangerously. "So you base your opinion of me on Gilbert's quips? Have you perhaps witnessed me charming anyone with such a purpose? Have you seen with your own eyes how I cross names off my lists? Have you, even once, bothered trying finding out what I am truly like, instead of believing all Gilbert's foolish jokes?"

Arthur stared at Francis, muted by his outburst. Well, there was a trail of truth in his words, he understood that when his brain started working again. While Arthur indeed had found Francis annoying already when they had first attempted talking, it was true that only after Gilbert's comment about Francis walking people home had got Arthur to see the Frenchman as a womaniser. After those words the man's flirt with others had started to seem more purposeful. And yet, Arthur couldn't say that he had seen Francis leave the pub with an admirer in his arms even once.

"It's always easy to believe all the bad things of others, especially if you are unwilling to hear anything good of them," Francis added, but now in a softer voice, as he saw Arthur's thoughtful silence.

The Englishman nervously dragged his hand through his messy hair. "I don't... Well. I don't want to believe anything bad of you. And I don't. I just..." _ I'm just afraid of getting hurt. _"I'm sorry. But you must at least admit that you are constantly keeping up some sort of flirtation with others."

Francis shrugged and showed Arthur his familiar lopsided smile. Arthur's stomach did a flip. "Sometimes. But always within innocence, unless I'm serious about it."

Arthur gave a non-committal sound for a response and began looking for loose threads in the sleeve of his jacket. "Well," he began. "Now that this is cleared -"

"It certainly isn't!" Francis interrupted him. "Now we only got to the actual topic of the evening." His cursed eyes bored into Arthur's. "Namely to one that I wanted to talk about to begin with."

A sudden wave of panic made Arthur take a step backwards, but Francis noticed the movement and removed the distance by stepping closer and placing his hands on the Englishman's arms. "Now we have established the fact that I don't play with people's feelings, and that I take no steps further unless I mean it." As Francis was speaking, Arthur felt his warm breath on his cheeks, and the low voice made his heart flutter like a flame in the wind. Francis' gaze burned, but Arthur was unable to avert his eyes from those blue flames. In a sudden flash of memory he remembered how his teacher had told them in chemistry class that the blue flame burned hotter than the yellow one.

Then Francis continued talking and chemistry lessons evaporated from Arthur's mind. "I meant what I said in the backroom. I want to know so much more about you. I want to know what kind of music you listen to, what kind of food you like, what kind of books you read." Was it just Arthur, or had Francis shifted closed to him? "I want to know what makes you laugh, and what makes you mad, and what makes you cry. I want to know how you prefer your tea. What sounds you make in your sleep, how you look when you wake up in the morning."

Francis leant forward and brought his lips to Arthur's ear. "I want to know what you are like when you let somebody close to you."

The air froze in Arthur's throat and his heart skipped a couple of beats, if it had even been beating at all. Francis' arms had somehow draped around the Englishman's torso, and Arthur was sure that had they not been there, he would have crumbled to little pieces on the pavement. His own arms hung stiffly on his sides, and even the most precise monitor wouldn't have been able to detect even little activity in his brain. The entire world had stopped around him. The entire world except for Francis, because Francis didn't belong to the world, he was a world of his own.

Francis detached himself from Arthur enough to look him in the eyes. "I didn't kiss you to toy with you," he said softly in his low voice. "I was just as serious then as when I am when I play the piano."

Had those words come from anyone else's mouth, Arthur wouldn't have been impressed by the comparison. But it was Francis who had uttered them, and Arthur knew what playing meant to him. Not even noticing how, he let his hands slide up the piano man's arms to his shoulders and nestle there, and a light breath grazed his face before warm lips pressed against his own.

This time Arthur didn't lose himself like he had in the backroom earlier that day. This time he was fully conscious of every moment. He was fully aware of the hands roaming on his body, of fingers playing in his hair, of palms resting on his cheeks. He felt every inch of Francis against his own body, sensed the warmth radiating from him even through the layers of clothes and despite the coolness of the night. And before all he felt the Frenchman's lips on his own lips, on his cheeks, his neck, everywhere. Francis spread out all around Arthur, found even the dustiest corners of him, surrounded him, pulled him into another world, Francis' world.

A soft sound escaped into the air and Arthur realised it had come from him. Then he gasped again, when Francis' lips covered the spot that he had nibbed with his teeth one moment earlier. Then Francis let his forehead rest on Arthur's shoulder and leant against him, breathing heavily. Arthur was distantly conscious of his own fingers tangled in Francis' golden hair, but he couldn't muster enough willpower to withdraw his hand. For a while they just stood there wrapped around each other, as if having barely survived a storm, and tried to calm their uneven breaths and rapidly beating hearts.

Then Francis lifted his head to get an eye-contact with the Englishman. "Arthur," he said, and Arthur felt all the emotion that was charged into that one word, his name, when it came from Francis' lips.

Now even Arthur was aware of what Francis wanted, and this time he didn't doubt his motives. But what about him? What did he, Arthur, exactly feel? Everything still remained a mess, as up to that moment he hadn't allowed himself to explore the skein of emotions inside him. He needed some time on his own to understand properly.

"I..." Arthur's knees were still made of jelly, but in spite of that he took a step backwards. "Francis, I need to... think."

The expression that momentarily took over the Frenchman features nearly broke Arthur's heart. "I just... I'm a bit... confused. This- I wasn't expecting anything like this."

"I understand," Francis said quietly and Arthur could only hope that he truly did. Francis let go of the Englishman and stepped backwards, too, and Arthur's hand fell from his hair.

Suddenly all the warmth and closeness between them disappeared. Arthur shivered again, but whether it was of cold or something else, he couldn't quite say.

"Er, if you are going to play tomorrow, I'll... I'll come to listen." The following day was Arthur's day off, so he wouldn't have to worry about work.

Francis offered him a small smile. "I'll be waiting."

And so they both departed each to their own direction, saying no more to each other.

xXx

Francis played with the same vigour as every night before. He granted his dashing smiles to his audience just like before, but he was yet to notice Arthur. Or at least that was how the Englishman explained to himself the fact that Francis hadn't given even a hint of a smile to _him_. Well, he had chosen the furthest table from the piano to be his safe haven, but one never knew.

Arthur had come to the pub long before Francis had entered it that night. He had wanted to take a moment to himself and muster courage before revealing to Francis all the thoughts and realisations that had kept him awake for so long the previous night. He had first intended to talk with the Frenchman before he started playing, but something had hindered him from doing so, and that's why he was no sitting and watching the piano man from afar, as he had done for those two first months since Francis' appearance in the pub.

Arthur had dwelt on all those things when he had been lying in his bed the previous night. He had recalled how he had watched Francis from behind an invisible wall, how he had admired him and his music. Now, looking back, Arthur understood that he had fallen for the piano man already in those early days, before their first encounter. However, he had been too much afraid to approach him, seeing that the pub was full of beautiful people who all smiled and chatted with the piano man, who, in turn, rewarded them with his acknowledgement. Arthur had never been of the chattering kind, and he didn't care for heartache that could be easily avoided.

But then... well, then they had in one way or another grown to know each other, and everything had proceeded so fast that Arthur hadn't been able to keep up. When Gilbert had launched comments so typical of him, Arthur had clung to them, because it was so much easier to dislike Francis than to set his heart on the line. But then Francis had of course gone and crumbled that tactic. And there they were. Now all that could be done was to offer his heart to Francis in the same way as the Frenchman had done the previous night to Arthur.

Only when Arthur was certain that Francis would soon finish playing and take his usual break did the Englishman force himself to move. He stepped in front of the piano just as Francis had finished his last song.

"May I request a song?" Arthur asked somewhat shyly, because he wasn't sure what sort of behaviour to expect from the Frenchman after the previous night.

Something flashed in the piano man's eyes, but it was gone before Arthur could identify what it was. A small smile graced the lips that had said so much the night before. "Of course."

That was it then. Now or never, all or nothing.

Arthur named the song he wanted to hear and hoped that Francis wouldn't see the involuntary blush on his face. Francis, naturally, noticed it, at least if anything could be judged by his widening smile and shining eyes. Francis graced Arthur with a look that told the Englishman that his message had been received and understood. His heart nearly stopped, and without uttering a word, the piano man began playing.

Arthur remained where he was, leaning against the back of the piano, and watched and listened. Francis didn't even glance at him while he played, but against his habits, he didn't look at anyone else, either, and Arthur knew that this time the piano man played only for him, Arthur, and for no one else.

X

_Author's note, part II: _There. Apparently these slow, cheesy, cliché-ish, sappy fics are what I do the best. Sorry, take it or leave it. XD I like them, I like the drama. And by the way, I am aware that Romano came out of the blue in this story, but it just happened, so I didn't resist. Also, writing Antonio is quite hard for me. Whenever I write something concerning the Bad Touch Trio, Gilbert is always the one with the bigger part, as I can't seem to get into Antonio's head properly.

Anyway! If you are reading this, I must congratulate you for getting this far! Thanks for reading. :)


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